Another stuffy night air with a strong pine and smoke odor. Everyone in the camp was asleep, but they weren't thinking. The quill was lightly scratching the rough paper I had ripped from one of Michael's old ledgers as I sat by the dying fire.

I had begun composing letters that I would never deliver.

correspondence with him.

Despite their differences, they are all the same. Anger turned into desire. Guilt replaced longing. Then there was quiet.

Whispering to myself, I read the first line ...